


The One With Brian's Birthday

by rory_the_dragon



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018), Queen (Band)
Genre: Brian is oblivious, Brian's Birthday, Early Days Queen, Easily Resolved, Featuring C.S. Lewis, Featuring the Author's Clear Desire to Run Away to Paris, Fluff, Freddie is Head Over Heels, Happy Ending, Has anyone seen that one episode of Friends with the ridiculously expensive crystal duck?, John is Smarter Than Them All, M/M, Mutual Pining, References to Brian's Job as a Teacher, References to Freddie and Roger's Market Stall, Roger is an idiot, Slight Misunderstanding, cheesy ending, that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-20
Updated: 2019-07-20
Packaged: 2020-07-08 23:21:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19877764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rory_the_dragon/pseuds/rory_the_dragon
Summary: Freddie's birthday present to Brian reveals more than either of them expect.





	The One With Brian's Birthday

The present is rectangular, impeccably wrapped and obviously from Freddie.

Brian would be able to tell even without the slight fidgeting to his right as his hand hovers over it.

He’s already opened the one from his parents, which had been the nicest wrapped of the small pile in striped paper with a shiny ribbon and had contained a new shirt for work and his father’s old watch. He’d been expecting the shirt ever since the last time he went back home for Sunday dinner and his mum had spent the whole time fussing over the worn-out patches on his elbows, but the watch had been a surprise, It ticks away merrily on his wrist as he tries to decide between what is obviously a record wrapped messily in newspaper – Roger’s – and the neatly wrapped box beside it that Brian actually can’t even begin to guess at the contents – John’s, most likely wrapped by his mum judging by the same Birthday Boy wrapping paper Brian remembers from John’s birthday last year.

There’s a couple of others, token presents from colleagues at work and the occasional unwrapped bottle of something with a gift-tag taped on from other people in the house paying tribute to the only person who contributes to the rent with any regularity, but it’s Freddie’s he’s most drawn to.

It’s also wrapped up in newspaper, same as Roger’s – Brian wouldn’t be surprised if they split the 50p cost of the same Daily Mail between them for this and to check their horoscopes – but where Roger’s is crumpled, taped inelegantly and wrapped with the same insouciance Roger emits in all corners of his life except the drums, Freddie’s is meticulous. If he suspected Freddie had any idea how to work one, Brian would suspect him of having ironed the sheets.

There’s a tag attached, and when he flips it over between his fingers it’s cut from the back of a cornflakes box, which means its been cut from the back of _his_ cornflakes box. If there was any doubt left that this is from Freddie, it’d be gone. No one else knows about the loose floorboard in the bedroom where Brian hides his stash of luxury items.

“Do you like the wrapping, darling?” Freddie asks, giving himself away as Brian lifts it off the coffee table. It’s heavier than he expected, and immediately Brian knows it’s a book. He can feel it under his hands. “I chose the best article for you. Something terribly clever.”

There’s a catch in Freddie’s voice and his hands are too quick when he reaches forward to tap jerkily at a headline. His cheeks are flushed, more than can be blamed on the blazing heat that their awful front room with the windows that barely open can’t alleviate. Freddie always gets excited at birthdays that aren’t his own, delighted to buy the people he loves presents with what little money he has, hands clasped together in triumph ready to crow ‘I _knew_ you’d love it, darling!”

Freddie is mercurial, changeable at the slightest, and Brian’s worked hard to be able to understand the differences in Freddie’s moods. Right now he doesn’t look excitable; he looks almost nervous.

If it were the two of them, alone in Brian’s bedroom, he’d set the present aside and ask why. Whether Freddie would tell him is another issue entirely, but he definitely won’t here. Not with Roger and John lounging in the other chairs and waiting on the reveal, all of them already halfway through the tins of cheap beer Roger offered as his first - _“And best!”_ \- present.

What’s confusing is that Freddie _was_ excited. All month he’s been saying how _amazing_ the _incredible_ gift he’s getting Brian is. He’d been so pleased with himself that Brian had begun to suspect that he’d been overselling it because, really, he hadn’t thought of anything yet. Then Freddie had started disappearing during the day. Just for an hour or so at a time, but enough that Brian noticed, until one day he’d come back with a brown paper bag under his arm and had banished Brian from the bedroom until it had been hidden away.

Brian had looked, of course he’d looked, but he hadn’t found a trace.

Now, with Brian’s fingers on the tape, Freddie looks slightly ill.

“ _Fred-_ ” he starts anyway, voice low, when Roger interrupts, loudly whining “Oh come _on_ , Brian. Open these then we can go celebrate properly.”

Brian turns a withering glare on him, but the shout seems to bring a bit of life back into Freddie if nothing else. “Yes, dear, do stop dawdling. I could do with a stiff drink.” Which does nothing to allay Brian’s concerns.

“I was looking forward to the cake, actually,” John interjects, which rightly so because Brian brought that thing back from Felton on the train so carefully that he expects at least some of it to be eaten, as stomach lining for the night ahead Roger has planned if nothing else.

“ _Fine, fine,_ cake first.” Roger waves a hand as if he hasn’t been eyeing Ruth May’s icing since it walked into the kitchen. Brian’s surprised it’s not been completely decimated. His mum’s baking is nothing short of coveted in the house, and Brian only had to leave a tin of shortbread around for a moment to turn back and find it pilfered. He suspects Freddie’s been guarding it

“ _Presents_ first,” Brian corrects, and tears the paper off of Freddie’s.

It seems a shame to rip through the careful, precise wrapping, but with Freddie tense as a bow next to him, Brian figures it’s better to get it over with.

It is a book. Rich green and tightly bound, it instantly feels expensive and Brian shoots Freddie a look, partly expecting, partly hoping, for Freddie to wave him off with a ‘I found it in a little shop, darling, barely spent a penny’. But Freddie doesn’t, just leans forward with a light in his eyes. Excitement for real this time.

“Check the spine,” he says, voice in a reverent hush, and Brian instinctively bends his head closer to Freddie’s, turning the book on its side so it’s more between the two of them than it isn’t.

It’s gilt, the letters shining clearly. They reflect slightly on the curve of Freddie’s cheek.

_The Chronicles of Narnia by C.S Lewis_

Something stirs at the edges of Brian’s memory. “Is this-”

“From that shop in Camden, do you remember?” Freddie looks up at Brian, hopeful, and the memory comes back to Brian in a flood.

It had been an awful week at work, close to the beginning before the kids started to understand him and before he started to understand them. He’s never wanted to be a teacher, doesn’t really have the patience for it and the old maxim rings in his head every day he goes without working on his thesis, but they have to make rent. It’s hardly like Freddie and Roger have anything close to solid incomes - sales at the stall aren’t rare but they’re not often enough to be a certainty - and to be honest he’s never really sure how many other people are living in the other rooms of the house at any given point in order to be able to make the rounds for rent. With this job he can almost make the payments, so long as Freddie and Roger turn out their pockets on rent day and then shout down everyone unfortunate enough to be in the house to do the same until they have enough. It pays the bills, but his heart’s never been in it.

That week had been worse though. Somehow mice had gotten into the house so Brian’s food was no longer usable and he was eating school dinners for the foreseeable. One of the lads in the room beneath his had had a new girlfriend so they pair of them had been keeping him up all night. The kids had been driving him insane at work and when he came home he’d have to remember all over again that Freddie was at his parents’ this week and there was nobody aside from Roger - whose advice was _always_ ‘quit and come work at the stall with me and Fred!’ - for him to unload some of his worries on.

Then on the Thursday he’d come out of the school, knowing he should have stayed later to finish marking but unable to spend another _second_ inside the awful brown walls, and found Freddie leant up against the school gates.

“You’ve done quite the number on poor Roggy this week,” Freddie had said, grinning like he didn’t know what kind of mood Brian was in and peering over a pair of oversized sunglasses as Brian approached. “Called me begging to come and cheer you up.”

“Roger should mind his own business.” Brian had bristled, every inch of him still hostile even as he felt the tension in his spine uncoil as Freddie laughed in the afternoon sun. 

“Come on, darling.” He’d held up a folded £20 between his fingers, more than Brian makes in a week. “Papa was worrying about me eating right. Let’s get dinner.”

The money should have gone towards the rent, made the month a little easier, but the week was difficult enough.

They’d gone to Camden Town, round the record stalls where they found an old Jimi vinyl neither of them owned, then Freddie had bought hot sandwiches to ostensibly keep up the charade of using his father’s money for necessities like food and such, and they’d eaten them by the lock.

“Wish we had enough money for a boat,” Brian had mused, watching the water pass by. “Or a train. Anything we could get on and just _go_.”

Freddie had propped himself up on his elbows from where he was optimistically sunning himself in the dying June sun. “Where would we go?”

“Paris maybe?” It was the first place that came to his head, and suddenly he could see it all. “We’d eat ice cream by the Seine. I’d go to the Universitié and you’d paint every day.” He crumpled up the sandwich wrapper and tucked it in his pocket, leaning back besides Freddie. With his eyes closed it was easy to pretend it was real.

Freddie took up the pretence. “When you didn’t have class we could go to the Louvre, or go busking for spare Francs. We’d have no money and live somewhere _tiny_ -” Brian laughed. “But we’d only be sharing it with each other.” The words hung in the air and Brian let himself believe it. “And Roger and Deaky, of course.” Freddie added quickly, and Brian opened his eyes.

“Yeah,” he said, colder again as the sun dipped behind a cloud. “‘Course.”

On the way to the tube station, Freddie had spotted a small antiques shop and forcibly _dragged_ Brian in, where Freddie had found two scarves he adored and still couldn’t afford with the money he had left, and a beautiful copy of Brian’s favourite childhood book. Freddie had elbowed Brian, laughing a little, asking if Narnia would be enough of an escape for him, and Brian had shook his head. “Still not far enough.”

They’d gone home together and Brian had reluctantly allowed Freddie to put the last of the twenty pounds into the tin under the floorboards for rent. They’d listened to the Jimi record, and the fact that Brian still had a day left at work tomorrow didn’t seem as bad.

It’s the book he’s holding in his hands now. He can almost feel the heat of that day bleeding out of it, the utter relief of being taken away and out of his head. He’d almost forgotten about the book, really, but the day mattered.

“It’s a first edition,” Freddie is saying, while Brian struggles to find the words he wants for this. “Check the inside, I couldn’t believe it-”

“How much did this _cost_ you, Freddie?” Is what Brian manages, voice a little hoarse. 

Because the antique shop had been incredible, full of interesting finds and some gorgeous camera parts that Brian had been itching to get his hands on, but everything had been so out of their price range that they’d left empty handed. Until Freddie went back, it seems. Went back, not for the scarves he’d coveted or the silver hairbrush he’d twirled between his fingers, but for Brian. He must have gone back so many times, paid a little each visit, without certainty he'd ever be able to pay the full amount until he did. All for Brian.

Freddie stutters, then waves a hand dismissively. “What kind of _question_ is that, darling?”

Which isn’t an answer.

“Freddie, this is amazing,” Brian starts, Freddie flushing prettily with pleasure, because it is. It’s a first edition Lewis. It’s beautifully bound, the pages gilt-edged. It’s the memory of that day in his hands. It’s also way out of Freddie’s price range. “But it’s too much, I can’t-”

“Oh, don’t be silly, dear, it’s just a _book_.” Freddie’s getting cross with him, Brian can tell. He’s ruining the moment, but Freddie has just handed him a book _none_ of them can afford. Freddie who steals his cereal, who drinks coffee instead of meals and owns exactly one pair of trousers because he can’t afford anything else. The amount he must have _saved_.

“It’s not just a book, Fred, it’s-”

“Oh, calm down, Brian, it’s just what Freddie’s like,” Roger says, clearly bored of any and all talk about _books_. He finishes off the can of beer in his hands and looks about for another one. “D’you remember when he was in love with Chris, and bought him that stupidly expensive record player? Nicer than the one we had that was.”

There’s a horrible silence.

Roger doesn’t even seem to realise what he’s said, too busy searching for the discarded six pack under the table, but Freddie goes pale. Brian’s heart is in his throat, Roger’s words playing on a loop over and over in his head, the evidence of them before him. Because if the book weren’t now suddenly damning enough, the way John looks instantly at Freddie would cement it.

Freddie looks like he’s about to be sick. 

“ _What?_ ” Brian’s voice is a croak, a crack in the silence that halts Roger in his tracks as his own word finally seem to sink in and that propels Freddie out of his seat like a bullet from a gun.

“Shit- _Fred-_ Wait-” Freddie ignores Roger as he bolts from the room, slipping free from the hand Roger tries to grab him with, and then he’s gone. 

The back door slams shut.

The book is still in Brian’s hands.

“ _God_ , you’re a wanker, Roger,” John says, succinctly, in the silence. 

Roger screws his eyes shut, like if he tries hard enough he can rewind the past forty seconds. “Yep. Fuck.”

“And _you-_ ” John turns on Brian. “-are an idiot.”

Brian barely hears him. “Did- Did everyone know but me?”

John exhales, exasperated but not unkind. “Yes, Brian.”

“To be honest, I thought you knew.” Roger cracks one eye open. “Thought you were ignoring it.”

“Which is why you’re an idiot as well as a wanker.”

“ _Hey!_ ”

“Ignoring it?” The words come out on a disbelieving breath. “I didn’t know there was anything to ignore. I thought-”

“I know what you thought.” John says. “But you’re as obvious as he is. Worse, some days.”

There’s a creaking sound coming from his lap, and Brian blinks for a second before realising it’s his hands, gripping the book so tightly the old leather is giving way. He releases it instantly. There’s no marks, nothing to say this ever happened. Nothing but an empty space on the sofa beside Brian, and the words Roger can never take back.

“You’re overthinking it,” John is saying, and Brian can feel the truth of it, his mind spiralling and rationalising. _Freddie is in- Freddie might be in- This could ruin-_ “Don’t. Just think about what it is that you want.”

Like that, it’s simple.

He finds Freddie in the back garden.

Somehow he’s found himself a cigarette and is already halfway through the smoking of it, face drawn and eyes closed as he clings to the rolled up paper like a lifeline. He doesn’t react as Brian steps out with him, doesn’t flinch at the closing of the door behind him, trapping the two of them out there. It’s as if he’s pretending that Brian doesn’t exist, which makes Brian hate Roger just a little bit because he can’t think of anything worse.

“Roger’s not allowed cake now,” Brian says, taking a seat beside him on the steps, instead of anything good or useful, but Freddie opens his eyes. There’s caution in the deepness of them, a wall coming up between the two of them where before there’s been nothing at all, and Brian can’t stand it.

“You know that won’t stop him,” Freddie says, voice as faux-casual as Brian’s is. Cautious, so cautious.

“I don’t know, he feels pretty awful.”

“ _Good_.” It’s said savagely. “Fucking wanker.”

“That’s just what John said.”

“Because it’s true.” Freddie flicks the cigarette away and before he can do anything, like lie to Brian or try to leave, Brian catches his arm. Unlike with Roger, Freddie doesn’t pull away, though Brian can feel every knot of tension in his muscles, ready to escape.

“Thank you,” He says, and means it. Means it with every bone in his body and breath in his lungs. “For the book. You don’t have to tell me how much it cost.”

Freddie narrows his eyes, clearly waiting for the other shoe to drop, and Brian’s heart is breaking to see his friend looking at him like this. Waiting for whatever awful thing he expects or fears Brian to have to say to him, heart out on his sleeve not by choice but by the careless actions of another. But his feet are planted, his shoulders back. Whatever he expects Brian to say, Freddie is ready for it. It’s the kind of vulnerable bravery Brian admires in him, and is fucking terrified of himself.

Freddie’s heart is out for the world to see. The least Brian can do is meet him there.

It’s too easy to pull Freddie in. The hardest part would have been reaching out for him, but with his fingers already wrapped around the upper part of his arm, the line is already crossed. All Brian has to do is tug, and Freddie comes.

There’s a noise of surprise, but then Brian’s other hand is coming up to cup Freddie’s face, guide his mouth towards Brian’s, and it’s so easy that it’s so fucking stupid they’ve not been doing this all along. Because Freddie’s mouth is warm, and soft, and _Freddie’s_ and Brian already knows there’s no turning back from this. Not when Freddie sighs against him, soft one second then burning the next as he opens his mouth to Brian’s. Not when Brian tilts Freddie’s head back and rubs his thumb against the curve of Freddie’s cheekbone. Not when Freddie’s tongue touches his and Brian _knows_ the taste of him with a shudder.

“ _Brian_ ,” Freddie starts, and he probably has questions. Lord knows Brian does too, but right now Brian is more interested in the gasping noises Freddie is making, the wet heat of his mouth, and the blazing realisation that everything Brian never let himself even think about wanting is now in his arms.

He breaks off the kiss to plant more around the shape of Freddie’s mouth, up the line of his nose and across his brow. He murmurs _Thank you, Thank you, Thank you_ between every single one and it’s for the book, for that day in Camden Lock, for Freddie and for _this_.

But Freddie does have one question, and he shoves at Brian insistently to get a chance to ask it. “Darling, are you _sure_?”

“It’s the best birthday present I could have asked for,” Brian tells him, sincerely, and kisses him again.

**Author's Note:**

> The whole C.S Lewis thing is based off of the one interview I could find where Brian called him his favourite author and that's good enough for me.
> 
> It's not technically the 19th for me anymore but it is for Brian in LA so that will have to do! HBD Bri!
> 
> I'm on tumblr as queerbrianmay - come say hi!
> 
> This fic is unedited. If there are any glaring errors, feel no need to mention them to me. I am certain I will find them all and many more :P


End file.
